


In the Erlking's Garden

by ladyofpride, theoneandonlyzoom



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dark, Like 1800s-ish in an imaginary land, M/M, Magic, Romance, Sex, Sidhe, Violence, references to miscarriages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23642236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofpride/pseuds/ladyofpride, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoneandonlyzoom/pseuds/theoneandonlyzoom
Summary: Barry Allen is still just a boy when his father, a widowed physician, is conscripted into yet another one of the Emperor’s foolish wars. He whiles the days away in solitude on his family’s land outside the superstitious town of Erden, anxiously awaiting his father’s return — until he receives the unfortunate news that Henry is missing, presumed dead. Alone and afraid, Barry therefore realizes he has nothing to lose when a handsome man suddenly shows up on his doorstep, claiming to be a sidhe and offering to take him somewhere Barry can learn a power unlike any other.After some thought, he accepts the stranger’s offer.A little over a year later, Len finds himself searching the forest around Erden for his sister, a master thief much like himself. She disappeared while trying to track down an artifact owned by the mythical Erlking of the fae. Len doesn’t put much stalk in fairy tales or magic, but he starts to believe otherwise when he stumbles across the enchanting Barry Allen deep in the Alder Forest.Life takes an unexpected turn, though, when Len begins to fall for the young man. Matters are only further complicated when he realizes a certain darkness has fallen over Erden and the surrounding land…
Relationships: Barry Allen/Hunter Zolomon, Barry Allen/Hunter Zolomon | Jay Garrick, Barry Allen/Leonard Snart
Comments: 32
Kudos: 73





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story is for my friend, Lila, and my darling husband (and editor, theoneandonlyzoom), who love both Fantasy AUs in this fandom and Hunter Zolomon far more than I would’ve ever anticipated. Part of the inspiration for the story comes from the many brainstorming sessions I had for my other Fantasy AU fic, The Prisoner of the Lake, and from the song 'Garden', by Lost in the Trees. In fact, I would highly recommend listening to the music from their ‘A Church that Fits our Needs’ release. 'Villain' and 'An Artist’s Song' are two other amazing songs.
> 
> PS: I don't know why **theoneandonlyzoom** isn't showing up as a co-creator when he's been helping me write this. I think it's been so long since I've been on AO3 that I'm not sure how to edit this properly anymore.

Exhausted, Barry Allen, drags his weary feet down the path from the dirt road to his little house just outside the Alder Forest. The day is waning into night, the horizon a red streak in the west, faintly illuminating the distant silhouette of Erden. The darkness will be upon him soon.

Barry spent the better part of the last hour walking from town, a week’s supply of food tucked into the small satchel hanging over his shoulder. He takes a moment to stare back at the spectacle, making a mental note that this will conclude the seventh month since his father’s absence. He’s beginning to wonder if the war will ever end.

In the dying light, Barry resumes the short journey to his front door. It’s dark enough out that he almost misses it: a roll of white parchment lying at the foot of the door, sealed with the red wax insignia of the royal family. Beside it sits a small, black pouch.

Barry’s heart leaps up into his throat.

He stands there numbly for what feels like a small eternity. Eventually, Barry musters the strength to move, crouching down to scoop up the roll and pouch. Then he stumbles into the house, depositing everything on the small table beside the door as he pulls open the top drawer and fumbles for the box of lucifers tucked away inside. He’s shaking hard enough that it takes him three tries to light the lantern sitting on the front windowsill.

When the sitting room is finally flooded with light, Barry returns his attention to the dreaded letter. Hesitant, he takes it in hand, breaking the seal and unrolling the parchment. He doesn’t have to read far to realize his greatest fear has been confirmed.

It’s a letter detailing the unfortunate loss of his father.

It doesn’t outright confirm his death, but the implication is heavy. There was a fire at the fort, one that spread to the surrounding forest. Few survived; identification of those lost was impossible, although Dr. Allen’s failure to report to his senior officer following the incident speaks for itself. As such, Bartholomew has been compensated for the loss of his father with the mandatory 500 golden qens. The Empire thanks Henry Allen for his services and expresses its deepest condolences to Barry for his loss.

Barry has to read the whole thing over a handful of times before he can truly process the fact that his father is gone. As the only man of age in their small household, Henry was conscripted seven months ago to serve as a physician in a war he wanted no part of, and now he would never return.

Barry is truly alone.

He drops heavily into one of the sitting chairs in the corner. Only then does he cry, body trembling, choking on his tears. He cries until his voice is hoarse and his head spins, finally succumbing to an uneasy sleep beside the cold hearth, one that is plagued by images of his deceased parents, stolen away from him too soon by the cruel hands of fate.

He wakes to a gentle knock at the front door.

Mind muddled by sleep, Barry lifts his head from his chest and squints at the lantern on the sill. At first, he wonders if he imagined the sound, but then it comes again, and with it a sliver of fear. He forgot to bolt the door when he came in. Whoever is out there could easily barge right in.

Fortunately, they don’t. Even so, Barry has no desire to entertain guests at the moment, although ignoring them is impossible. They would’ve seen him sleeping through the front window. They know he’s home—and likely alone.

Swallowing the painful lump in his throat, Barry rises from his chair. Letter in hand, he quietly tosses it into the top drawer of the table by the door along with the small pouch of gold qens before he opens the door a crack. Peering out into the darkness, it takes him a moment to focus on the face of the taller man standing just outside.

“May I come inside, Master Bartholomew?” he asks.

There’s a subtle uptick in Barry’s heartbeat when he hears his name. He knows very few people in the outskirts of Erden; his father, on the other hand, served as the only physician for many of the families in the area and knew almost everyone. Barry had accompanied him a few times, as he was beginning to learn his father’s trade, so perhaps he met this man in passing. Or perhaps his father spoke of him in passing. Either way, Barry realizes he needn’t be so skittish.

“May I ask how you know my name?” Barry replies, pulling the door a little farther open, the better to illuminate his guest.

Said guest is a young fellow, though still ten to fifteen years Barry’s senior. He’s a handsome man, blond, cleanshaven, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. Barry doesn’t recognize him, but he’s not as afraid of him anymore. If this gentleman wanted to hurt him, he could’ve easily burst through the door the moment Barry opened it.

“I’m a close acquaintance of your father,” the man replies. “Your mother, too, when she was alive. I told Henry I would check up on you if the war dragged on for too long.”

Barry feels an uncomfortable weight settle in the pit of his stomach with the unfortunate reminder of the war. However, he feels it might be helpful to discuss his father’s passing with an apparent friend. In any case, Barry doesn’t really want to be alone right now. A little company would be welcomed.

Taking a step back, Barry waves his hand toward the sitting room. “Please, come in. I wasn’t expecting guests, but I can prepare food and drink for you, if you would like.”

The stranger makes a small hum of amusement as he finally sweeps into the room. “No, thank you. In fact, I came here to offer you much of the same.”

As he moves, Barry catches a glimpse of a wicker basket under the gentleman’s cloak. He hands it to Barry as he reaches up to unclasp said cloak from his shoulders, revealing his black attire, embellished with faint, silver embroidery along the cuffs and hem of his coat, made up of delicate vines and thistles and roses. It all looks…frightfully expensive.

For a moment, Barry wonders if he’s in the company of nobility. “Are you from around here?” he asks, tentative.

“I own this land,” the man replies, wandering across the room, eyeing the cold hearth. He tosses his cloak onto the sitting chair in the corner and glances back at Barry, gesturing vaguely at the basket in his hands. “I hope you like it. Please, let me know if it’s not to your standards.”

His suspicions more or less confirmed, Barry draws a complete blank on how he’s supposed to receive nobility. It helps, though, that he’s been given a task, setting the heavy basket down on the table beside his own bag of goods and pulling back the small white cloth covering it—he’s beyond stunned to find it stuffed with a wild assortment of fruits, vegetables, cured meats, eggs, cheese, and two full glass bottles, one of milk and one of some deep amber liquid. Curious, he lifts the latter bottle from the basket and glances over at his guest. “What is this?”

“Summer wine,” the man replies as he waves a hand at the hearth—a fire roars to life inside, the solitary log behind the mesh splintering, spitting embers up into the air. “I made it myself. Your parents allow you to drink, do they not?”

His parents rarely drank themselves, and, no, they wouldn’t let him indulge in anything of the sort until he himself was a man—but Barry fails to find the words to vocalize his answer in the face of such…well, he doesn’t know what to call it when a man lights a fire with the mere flick of his wrist.

‘ _Magic_ ,’ he supposes.

“Perhaps tonight isn’t the best time for wine,” the stranger murmurs as he steps forward to gently extract the bottle from Barry’s hand, who simply stands there, frozen, still staring at the fire.

Barry’s heard stories about the sidhe and the many other mythical creatures living in and around Erden, but he’s never _seen_ anything to suggest that those stories were true. He’s lived here all his life. He assumes he would’ve found evidence of something so unnatural well before now.

“Who are you?” Barry breathes, completely stupefied. He must be dreaming. “And how did you do that?”

“Those closest to me call me ‘Hunter’,” the gentleman says as he curls a hand around Barry’s elbow, leading the poor boy to the empty sitting chair. Once Barry is seated, he elaborates a little further. “To all others, I am known as the Erlking.”

“The Erlking…” Barry echoes faintly, stiffening in his seat.

The Erlking was a king of the sidhe. One of the most powerful. In fact, he was fabled to be the son of Nature itself. He was thought to own the land from here to the horizon and well beyond, for miles and miles in every direction. He was also the Lord of the Hunt and a king-slayer and master of old remedies and—and _too_ _many_ other things for Barry to remember all at once. The only thing that mattered was that this was a fae Barry had unknowingly _welcomed_ into his home…

The man could kill him with the snap of his fingers now, if he so desired.

Instead, the Erlking drops to a knee in front of Barry, taking one of Barry’s hands into his own, obviously realizing the terrible fright he’s given the poor boy. “Please, don’t be afraid. Like I said, I was a friend of your parents. I’ve been keeping an eye on you in your father’s absence.”

“My father…” The words catch in the back of Barry’s throat, grief seeping through his fear and confusion. “My father is…”

“There was a solider at your door today,” the Erlking explains. “You were away, so he left his letter for you. I can guess what it said. I’m…sorry for your loss.”

Barry’s stomach turns unpleasantly at the reminder.

He feels like he should say something. Instead, he raises his free hand to his mouth and sobs into it, tears hot at the corner of his eyes, blurring his vision. He can feel the Erlking gently retracting his own hand and walking toward the door, but still he cries. Barry thought he was done with that today, but clearly he wasn’t.

The Erlking doesn’t leave; he returns to Barry’s side once his sobs have quieted down, the bottle of milk and a small wooden cup in hand. He pours Barry a drink and hands it to him.

Barry mumbles a small thank you as he takes the cup. The milk feels good at the back of his sore throat. In fact, it tastes divine, both creamier and somehow cleaner than what he is accustomed to.

Setting the bottle of milk down on the floor beside Barry’s foot, the Erlking settles into the chair adjacent to him and stares into the roaring hearth. “You’re young,” he says after a long stretch of silence, “too young for the conscription and too young to know everything of your father’s trade yet.”

Numbly, Barry nods. He could find another physician to continue his education. He has 500 qens, which would go a long way toward securing himself a bright future, if he’s careful. However, he’ll no longer be a ‘boy’ in a few months. If the war drags out much longer, he’ll be conscripted and apprenticed to a physician in the field, the thought of which makes him angry more than anything. His father was a pacifist, and so is Barry. This war is pointless.

His father’s _death_ was pointless.

Barry takes a sip of his milk to ease the acidic taste at the back of his throat and says, “Well, I’ll be a man sooner than you think.”

“Is that so?” the Erlking draws his gaze away from the flames and turns it on Barry, weighing him with his eyes, which are the curious colour of lavender. “You’ve done an admirable job of caring for yourself in your father’s absence, but there are troubles ahead that will be difficult to tackle on your own.”

Barry knows that to be true. Even so, he asks, “Such as?”

“Thieves,” his guest supplies. “Everyone around here knows you’re alone. I’ve seen men wandering through the neighboring field in the dead of night, watching your house. It’s only a matter of time before someone realizes your father is dead and musters the courage to take everything from you, including your life.”

A chill works its way down Barry’s spine. Thieves…He has, in all actuality, been wondering what was stopping anyone from invading his home in his father’s absence. He’s really quite defenseless out here on his own. Of course, he could move into town, which would be safer, but that would also be quite costly. Too costly. 500 qens wouldn’t cover rent for more than a year or two in Erden, considering how quickly the town has been growing in recent years…

“I know I’m in a bad situation,” Barry says softly, staring down into his cup of milk. It’s done wonders for his nerves; he wishes he had more than just a bottle.

“You don’t have to be.”

Curious, Barry looks up at his guest.

“I could make you strong,” the Erlking continues, voice soft, firelight dancing in his eyes. “There’s so much I could teach you, Bartholomew.”

“What do you mean?” Barry asks, not entirely sure what the sidhe is offering him. He’s had a long day and an even longer night. Very little of his life has made sense since he stumbled across that letter. “Why would you feel compelled to do _anything_ for me, really?”

“Because I’ve always been quite fond of your family,” the Erlking explains, “and because you were born and raised on my land; you are just as much my responsibility as any of my other subjects. Since I can strengthen myself only by strengthening my own, this could be considered a valuable investment for the both of us.”

Barry opens his mouth—and then closes it again, wary. One of the oldest rules of dealing with the sidhe was to _never_ deal with the sidhe. They could be incredibly cruel at times. Even if they weren’t trying to be malicious, their primary concern was how well any given situation turned out for themselves. Doing business with the sidhe could, therefore, have fatal consequences.

“This sounds like a dangerous proposition,” Barry finally says.

“I’ve kept you safe this long,” the Erlking replies, “and I will continue to protect you from harm. You have my word.”

The sidhe were also known to be bound by the vows they made, and this one sounded clear cut, no ambiguity whatsoever in the wording.

Even so…

“What is this going to cost me?”

The Erlking shares a small smile with him, no doubt accustomed to a certain level of scrutiny when dealing with humans. “Nothing terrible, I assure you. As your king, you would need to heed my every command, as is expected of everyone in my court. The heftiest ‘price’, I think, is that you would not be allowed to continue living among the humans. You can continue to walk among them, but we sidhe guard our secrets carefully; the same would be expected of you. Do you understand?”

Following a sidhe’s every command sounded, of course, like the potential for trouble, but…glancing around the small room, just one of the many in this terribly empty house, Barry knows he really has nothing to lose by starting his life anew. He doesn’t have too much going for him here—and he doesn’t see the point in a sidhe trying to deceive a mere boy. If the Erlking wanted to hurt him, he could’ve easily done it by now.

“Am I allowed to sleep on your offer?” Barry asks, testing the waters.

“Of course,” the Erlking replies, sounding not at all disappointed, as if he’d been expecting such a request. “You can take as long as you like. In fact—” he glances over at the food basket on the table, “—we can continue this discussion once you’ve nearly depleted my gift. You should take this time to rest, to grieve. I will have someone guard your home from afar.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“No,” the Erlking says as he rises from his seat, “these efforts cost me nothing. Please, take care. I will call upon you again soon.”

With a small bow of his head, the Erlking sets his cloak over his shoulders and makes his way to the door. Barry follows him, mind reeling from all that’s happened, quietly wishing their visit hadn’t ended so soon. He almost asks the sidhe to stay a while longer, but the words stick at the back of his throat as the Erlking flashes him a small smile farewell. Barry finally bows his head in return, standing there with his hand on the door as he watches the sidhe disappear into the darkness.

It takes Barry a while to close the door and shut the latch above it. As he turns to take in the empty room, he realizes he can smell something crisp and green, like the conifers farther to the north of Erden. The air in here is somehow fresher now. Warmer, too, thanks to the fire, which Barry puts out with care before collecting his lantern from the windowsill and retreating upstairs.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he hesitates. Then he turns left, wandering into his parents’ room, eyeing the bookshelf in the far corner. Few people owned as many books as his father, although most were medical journals and notes. The three books tucked away to the right on the topmost shelf belonged to Barry’s mother. Two were storybooks, which she’d often read to him as a child, and the third was her own journal, a collection of recipes and remedies and songs she’d developed over the years.

Retrieving her journal, Barry sets his lantern down on his father’s desk in the corner and takes a seat. He hasn’t touched this book since his mother passed away nearly a decade ago, but he remembers the little drawings she doodled in the margins: stags with flowers sprouting from their antlers, trees that wept, rivers that babbled, birds that turned to stone at dawn, and the shadows of wolves wandering the world alone—Barry used to think they were just figments of her imagination. Now, he wonders how many of these fantastical creations were true.

He flips through the pages slowly, eyeing a few of the recipes along the way, until he encounters a pressed flower near the end. Its petals are gold around the pistol, bleeding into red towards the tips. It’s tucked beside the drawing of a set of footprints trailing across a barren landscape, flowers blooming wherever this curious creature touched the scorching sand.

He wonders what she was thinking when she drew this.

Yawning, Barry closes the book and rises from his seat. Momentarily, he considers going to his bedroom, but there’s an ache in his heart and his legs refuse to cooperate with him as he instead blows out his lantern and wanders over to his parents’ bed. He lies down on top of the covers, eyes burning with fresh tears, and weeps silently into soft pillows until sleep takes him once more.

The next few days pass in something of a haze. With his grief weighing him down, he barely has enough energy to eat and tend to his other basic needs. He tries to read his father’s medical journals, the ones his father wrote to instruct him, but it’s difficult keeping focus on his own. He’s used to asking questions, of sparking debates about some of his father’s more peculiar methods, but now he only has this unending silence to stimulate thought and keep him company.

It doesn’t take Barry long to realize he can’t keep going on like this.

He doesn’t know what the Erlking meant when he said he would make Barry stronger, but he supposes he can ask the sidhe for clarification once they meet again. Whether he meant that physically or spiritually, Barry doesn’t care. He needs strength; he needs _something_ to occupy his mind, because all that he has now are the memories of the only two people he every truly loved.

He’s eager to see the Erlking again, but it takes him longer than he anticipated to finish the food gifted to him. Besides the fact that he was given quite the feast, his melancholy almost completely stifles his appetite. It takes him a fortnight to reach the bottom of the basket, at which point all that remains are a few vegetables and the summer wine; the former he uses in a stew that evening.

It’s as he’s making this stew that he hears a gentle knock at the door, which brings with it a warm swell of joy beneath his breast, something he’s been missing for days now.

As expected, his guest is none other than the Erlking. The sidhe pulls back the hood of his cloak as he enters the sitting room, staring through the archway into the kitchen. With a smile, he says, “That smells lovely.”

“You are welcome to join me,” Barry replies, politely taking the sidhe’s cloak and draping it over one of the chairs.

The Erlking accepts his offer, taking a seat at the table as Barry collects the summer wine from the basket. “I’m surprised you haven’t touched that yet,” the Erlking remarks as Barry pours him a cup. He doesn’t have a proper goblet, which is a pity. “Most youths are overeager when it comes to sampling wine.”

“My parents rarely indulged in drink,” Barry reminds him, debating whether to pour himself a cup. “I was always taught that wine should only be enjoyed in the company of a special guest.”

The Erlking tries to fight back the smile on his lips, but ultimately fails. “You know, that’s something I’ve always liked about you. You’re terribly polite. And kind. Your mother often spoke of how proud you made her.”

“Were you close to her?” Barry asks, finally pouring himself a small amount—just to taste, of course. He hasn’t talked about his mother with anyone in ages, including his father. “I don’t remember having ever met you before.”

“You were incredibly young the last time I spoke with her,” the Erlking replies, watching as Barry takes the seat opposite him. “Like I said, we sidhe prefer to keep to ourselves, so I usually only watch your people from afar. I gifted her flowers from my garden once and shared some of those remedies with her.” He points to Nora’s journal on the corner of the table beside Barry’s bowl of stew. “She always reminded me very much of my own mother.”

Barry finds himself touching the worn leather cover of the journal, thinking back to his mother’s warm smile and soft green eyes. He remembers that she was well-liked by everyone she met. It doesn’t surprise him that the Erlking liked her too.

“Let’s make a toast, shall we?” The Erlking raises his cup, waiting for Barry to follow his lead. “To Henry and Nora Allen, much loved and dearly missed.”

“To my parents,” Barry agrees, finally taking a sip of the summer wine. It tastes delightful, of course, if a bit sharp. Barry catches a hint of strawberries at the back of his tongue, which are his favorite fruit, and feels a delightful warmth in his chest. “This is delicious.”

“Once you’ve had a chance to sample other wines, you’ll realize that nothing can ever compare,” the Erlking replies before digging into his stew. 

Barry follows suit, for once enjoying the silence in his home. It’s oddly bearable with the company at hand.

After they’ve finished their meal, the Erlking leans back in his chair and asks, “Have you given my proposition any thought?”

Setting his spoon down beside his bowl, Barry says, “I have.”

“And?”

“I wanted to know, in simpler terms, what your proposition is. All I could glean from our last talk is that I must live apart from my people and that you will somehow make me ‘stronger.’ What does that mean exactly?”

The Erlking pauses a moment, then glances down at Nora’s journal. Barry follows his gaze—flinching minutely as a small vine worms its way out between the pages. Tentatively, he opens the book, surprised to see a small sprout budding from the pressed flower at the back.

“I want to teach you how to be a healer,” the Erlking replies, “like your father. My methods are different, of course, but I think you will find them more effective.”

“You can teach a human magic?” Barry breathes, reaching out to touch the small bud. It grows slowly larger, tiny vines spilling out onto the paper, until it brushes up against his fingertip and stops, as if startled or confused. “I thought only the sidhe could use magic.”

“You would become something of a sidhe in the process of learning it,” the Erlking explains, “but that is not so bad, I think. Certainly, it’s a better fate than waiting for your current life to continue crumbling all around you.”

That’s true, of course, but even as intrigued as Barry is by the prospect of learning something so fantastic, he still has questions. “And if I chose this new life with you, I take it I wouldn’t ever be allowed to return to this one?”

“Not quite,” the Erlking replies. “For all intents and purposes, you are, until the next anniversary of your birth, still a child. You would be my ward until you reached adulthood, at which point you would have to decide whether you wanted to return to this life or become an overt member of my court. As I said before, you will always be allowed to walk among your people, but it’s preferred that you keep your contact with them to a minimum.”

His birthday is months away. It therefore seems like a decent amount of time to make his decision, although he knows that he has to make one thing clear: “Earlier, you said I would have to heed your every command, correct?”

“As I am your king, yes, you would.”

Barry knows he has nothing with which to bargain here, but he decides to vocalize his request anyway, hoping for the best. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. Ever. If you promise me that you’ll never command me to harm another human being, I will accept your offer.”

The Erlking’s brief look of surprise is quickly chased away by something of approval or respect. “Then you have my word, Bartholomew Allen. I will never command you to hurt or kill another human being.”

With that question finally off his chest, Barry suddenly feels so much lighter, like a bit of the gloom from these past two weeks has finally been lifted. He finds that he can relax as he leans back in his chair. “Thank you.”

“It’s a noble request,” his guest remarks. He pauses to sample his wine and then says, “I know the reputation of the sidhe is not the best, but I do hope you come to realize that we’re not as cruel as most people think. We can be quite generous.”

Superstitious people tended to assume the worst in any situation, at least in and around Erden. Barry has, in fact, also heard stories of fae aiding humans out of kindness; such a thing is not unheard of. He can therefore believe the sidhe’s claim of generosity.

At Barry’s nod, the Erlking rises from his seat. “If that’s all, I think it’s about time we take our leave. It’s always better to travel by night.”

There’s a brief flutter in Barry’s stomach, a mix of excitement and fear. He nods again in agreement and clears the dishes from the table, washing them up before carefully storing them away in the cupboard. If he decides his arrangement with the Erlking isn’t going to work out, he doesn’t want to come home to a mess.

While Barry tidies up the kitchen, the Erlking wanders off to explore the house. Barry hears his soft footsteps overhead and searches the sidhe out once he’s finished cleaning. He finds his guest in his parents’ bedroom, standing beside the bookshelf, dragging his fingertips over the worn spines of Henry’s many medical journals.

“Am I allowed to take anything with me?” Barry asks.

“A few things of sentimental value,” the other man replies, “Don’t concern yourself with necessities. I will feed you and clothe you.”

Barry already has his mother’s journal under his arm, which he intends to keep with him. He also grabs his father’s silver pocket watch from the small bedside table and the tiny locket tucked into the drawer beside it, one which contains two sketches of his parents. All of this he gently deposits in one of his father’s old worn leather satchels, along with two of Henry’s more recent medical journals. The Erlking looks mildly surprised when Barry adds those to the bag, but he makes no comment.

Finally—and only because he doesn’t want potential thieves profiting too much from breaking into his home in his absence—Barry grabs the qens and stuffs them in the bag. The Erlking says nothing about that either, although he looks as though he understands Barry’s unspoken reasoning.

Satisfied, Barry throws the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, setting the bag at an angle against his hip. “That’s everything, I suppose.”

“It seems like so little,” the Erlking remarks as he leads the way back downstairs. “And none of it is your own. Is there nothing else you wish to take?”

“Nothing else really matters.”

He has his own trinkets, of course, and books and journals and tools he’s built from scratch, but it’s not anything he can’t live without. All he really needs is something to help him remember his parents, to keep them alive in his memories.

Once they reach the sitting room, Barry pauses to take one last look at his childhood home. It seems so hollow, as if no one truly lives here anymore.

Blowing out his lantern, he follows the Erlking outside.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the moon is full, and the sky is alight with hundreds of stars, illuminating the tall, black steed waiting patiently beside the house. It’s not tethered to anything, nor does it have a saddle or reigns, although the Erlking mounts it with practiced ease.

“Do you ride?” the sidhe asks as he extends a hand down to Barry.

“Occasionally,” he replies. They had a horse named Ruby once, but his father was the only one who really rode her, usually when visiting clients around the countryside. He had taken Ruby with him to the war, as he was ordered, and so Barry has little reason to believe she’s still alive.

The Erlking swings Barry up onto the horse with what seems like barely any effort. Of course, Barry’s never ridden a horse without a saddle before, nor with a partner, so he tentatively circles his arms around the sidhe’s waist to keep himself balanced.

“Where are we going?” Barry asks as the Erlking gently digs his heels into the steed’s flank, starting them off at a comfortable trot toward the Alder Forest.

“First, to my world,” the Erlking replies. “There’s so much I want to show you. It will be unlike anything you’ve even seen before.”

Barry glances up at the glittering heavens, thinking of his mother and his father.

Wherever he goes, they will never be far from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Next up, the other dashing protagonist of this story...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There's a bit of a time-skip here, but that's because I enjoy setting my prologues pretty far in advance of the rest of the story. Makes the sad bits sadder and the sweet bits sweeter, if you ask me... ;)

~***~

~One year later~

~***~

Bone tired and sore from his long trip, Leonard dismounts his horse outside the town gate and waits for a response from the night guard eyeing him through the tiny slot in the wicket of the left door. When he’s greeted with silence, he squints at the beady eyes on the other side and says, “Well? How much for passage?”

“One qen,” comes a gruff voice, glancing to the left and right of Len, then scanning the winding road behind him. Len is alone, so he imagines the man doesn’t find much of anything of interest in the moonlit landscape besides his horse.

“That’s a hefty price,” Len scoffs, glancing up at the twenty-foot wall of stone, Erden’s first line of defence against their imaginary enemies. He would laugh, except he really doesn’t feel like camping another night out on the side of the road. He’s already had a few run-ins with trouble during the two-week trip it took him to get down here from the Capital, and he’s running low on supplies, so he fishes around inside his coat pocket for a qen and flicks it through the slot.

The slot slides shut again almost immediately. Then there’s an awful stretch of silence that has Len gearing up for a fight, having figured that he’s just been cheated, before it’s broken by the sound of a deadbolt sliding out of place.

The wicket finally swings open. The guard gives Len a long, hard look before stepping aside to permit him access into Erden. The older fellow looks like he can’t wait to retire from this job, but the muscles he’s packing imply he’ll likely be at it for at least a few more years if his superiors have anything to say about it.

Len offers the poor fool a thin smile as he passes through, his horse’s reins in hand, scanning the street ahead for an inn. He spots one immediately, as indicated by the image of a woman holding a rusted sickle in one hand and a beer stein in the other on the sign hanging above the door, relieved that Mick chose a relatively simple place to find for once. With any luck, he’ll get a room for the night before it’s too late.

As he leads his horse down the street, he’s surprised to see how many are already tethered outside the pub and inn. He has trouble finding a space for his own near the water trough, now concerned that he’ll have a similar problem getting a room inside. It would be just his luck if he’s turned away for the night.

His already bad mood darkening further, he squeezes through the throng of people inside as he scans the bar for Mick. The man is almost always drinking when he isn’t currently working, so Len is marginally relieved to spot the man asleep by the roaring hearth against the far wall, a sure sign that Mick’s already accomplished what he set out to do today.

Len drops into the empty seat beside his old friend, pocketing the five qen he liberated from a few of the other patrons on his way in. Mick doesn’t stir until Len deftly slips the beer stein out of his right hand to take a swill.

Mick jerks awake with a sharp snore, scowling at Len until he realizes just who his guest is. Then he snatches the stein back and takes a long pull of it himself. “Took you long enough to get here,” he grumbles over the rim.

“Hello to you too,” Len murmurs, leaning back in his chair. The fire feels good. He’s about ready to nod off himself right then and there. “What’s with the crowd? I thought Erden wasn’t fond of outsiders.”

“The Baron’s holding a hunting competition or something,” Mick replies, obviously not understanding the issue any better than Len. “Rooms are all booked up. I got the last one. You can sleep on the floor if you’d like.”

“I’ll pass,” Len mutters. He’d get a better night’s rest lying out on the dirt. “Are any of the residents offering rooms?”

“Supposedly, there’s an old man that lives up the street. Blue door, last house on the right, but he’s got an old banshee of a maid that’ll scream at you if you so much as look at her the wrong way.”

Len doesn’t intend to spend much time indoors other than to eat the occasional meal and catch a little shuteye, so he’ll give it a try. “I’ll follow up on that later. For now, I want to know what you’ve found.”

Mick shifts in his armchair, glancing over his shoulder at the noisy mull of patrons huddled around the tables behind them, merry and drunk and boisterous. There’s no way anyone can really hear them, so Mick’s sudden paranoia puts Len on edge.

“She was here about a month and a half ago,” Mick finally says, lowering his voice. “Barmaid remembers her pendant. Lisa said she was here for the hunt, but you and I know that ain’t likely.”

There’s a small quirk at the corner of Len’s lips, a barely contained smile. Much like himself, his sister made a living as a thief, although one that was a little more high-calibre then the sorry sorts who were usually arrested after their first few robberies. However, she had taken a liking to ‘treasure hunting’ in recent years, so Len could understand why she would be drawn to a dark and superstitious place like Erden, which had always been rumored to be surrounded by a forest that belonged to the sidhe, curious creatures with magical abilities and greater riches than any human monarch alive.

Neither he nor Lisa put much stock in fairy tales, of course, but he could see why she would be attracted by talk of ‘treasure’. It’s more likely than not that someone stumbled across an item of particular value in the forest, assumed it was a holy relic or something as equally ludicrous to have not yet been disturbed, and now nobody wanted to go near it—essentially, easy pickings for people like them.

“Did she say where she was heading after the ‘hunt’?” Len asks. They were supposed to meet up four weeks ago to conduct a little of their usual business together. Her sudden disappearance and a lack of a message was not unusual, but the amount of time that had passed since she vanished certainly was. She should’ve reached out to him sometime within the first three days after their scheduled meeting.

“Northeast, to Abelworth,” Mick replies, convening the uselessness of that information with a grunt before he takes another long draw from his beer. “But I checked Abelworth—and Janus and Haydel and Smarth. She hasn’t been seen in any other towns around here. This was her last stop.”

Len props his right elbow against the armrest of his chair and idly traces his forefinger along the edge of his jaw, staring into the fire. Lisa was a smart woman. She could hold her own in a fight, but she was also wise enough to avoid any kind of physical confrontation in the first place. Either way, Len doubts she fell afoul of anyone in Erden considering how stringently the town was policed by the Baron’s Guard. More likely, she suffered some unfortunate accident in the forest, the thought of which makes him a little nervous.

A lot can happen to someone all alone in the wilderness, especially after four weeks.

When he finds Lisa, there’s a high probability she’ll either be severely injured or dead.

“We need to search the surrounding forest,” Len says after a long stretch of silence. “Have you given it a shot yet?”

“I just got back from Smarth,” Mick replies. “I was going to give it a go first thing in the morning.”

“We’ll meet back here tomorrow before you leave,” Len replies, slowly rising from his seat. “I want to look for clues. Then I want to replenish my supplies and head out for a longer trek. Try to keep close to Erden, just in case she comes back or if news of her whereabouts starts circulating.”

“Good luck figuring out where we should start.” Mick tips his stein at him in a mock salute. “And good luck finding a room.”

Len’s face twitches in irritation at the reminder. He’d gotten comfortable in this seat, soaking in the warmth from the fire. It would be all too easy to succumb to his exhaustion from the trip and fall asleep right here.

Knowing that he needs to move before he nods off, Len pushes himself to his feet. He’s half tempted to order a meal before he goes, but his hunger has diminished since their little talk. He likes to pretend that he cares about no one, but anyone who’s met Lisa would know that’s an absolute lie. Her sudden disappearance is affecting him more than he would ever admit.

He pushes his way back out the front door, taking a slow, deep breath of cold air to wake himself up before he untethers his horse from the trough and leads the weary beast up the empty street.

Erden had gotten to be a wealthy enough town over the years that there are oil lamps lining the main road, dimly illuminating the way as he eyes the towering stone houses and stores squeezed together on either side. Surprisingly, the street is clean, and he spots a few flower beds in the windows, an unusual sight in many of the larger, more densely populated cities. Of course, Erden is quite large to still be considered a town, but it’s located far north of the Capital. Len doubts that rest of the Empire remembers it enough to reclassify it as a proper city.

He spots the blue door of the house on the corner before too long. He also spots two men standing outside, a young man dressed entirely in black, a thin wooden club in hand, which he taps rhythmically against his thigh, and an older gentleman wearing a large overcoat and top hat leaning casually against his silver-capped cane as the two men quietly converse. They pause, of course, as Len approaches, both eyeing him up quickly before the young man nods his head at Len and says, voice faintly accented, “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening,” Len replies, now close enough to see the short sword sheathed at the man’s side; this, of course, must be one of the Baron’s guards.

“Can we help you?”

Len nods his head at the house behind them. “I’m in search of lodging. Someone suggested I try here.”

The older gentleman glances briefly over his shoulder. After a moment of deliberation, he says, “I think you might be in luck. Are you here for the hunt?”

For a split-second, Len considers lying. The best way to keep anyone’s attention diverted from his business would be to pretend he was simply there for this apparent ‘hunt.’ However, it hasn’t escaped him that the man is wearing an insignia ring or that there is a small, silver pendant around his neck, upon which is etched the image of a stag’s head—the coat of arms of Baron Devoe, who, if the rumors were to be believed, was a devilishly clever man.

Lying, therefore, doesn’t seem like the best idea at the moment.

“I’m just passing through,” Len replies, deciding to keep his answers short and sweet. “I’m on my way to visit my family.”

“That’s a pity,” the Baron replies. “There’s a handsome reward for whoever can fell the largest beast. Do you hunt?”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“Very well.” The Baron tips his hat at Len and smiles. “Have a good evening, sir. Please, enjoy your stay in Erden.”

Len nods in return, watching as the Baron and his guard stroll down the street at a casual pace, continuing their previous conversation.

He feels a cold weight shift in the pit of his stomach, but he doesn’t know why.

Eventually, Len loops the reigns of his stead around the wrought iron gate of the corner house, untying his small bag of supplies from the back of the saddle. Then he walks the steep steps up to the front door and gives the knocker a hearty bang. After a few seconds of silence, he raises his hand to knock again, but then the floorboards inside creak and the door is abruptly yanked opened a few inches.

An old, wizened face peers out at him. The elderly woman scrutinizes him through a crooked pair of spectacles, an iron poker clutched in her right hand as if she were expecting an attack. Frowning, she asks him something far too quickly in a foreign tongue for him to understand.

Len blinks in surprise. “…Come again?”

Jaw working briefly, as if chewing on something small with her molars, the old woman eyes him for another long, agonizing moment. Eventually, she slowly says, as if speaking with a deaf child, “ _Der Arzt_?”

“Arzt?” he asks. The word—name?—doesn’t sound familiar to him, but he’ll run with it. “Sure. I’m here to see ‘Herr Arzt’. Can I come in?”

Before the woman can continue her interrogation, another voice behind the door calls out to her. She then opens the door a little further and retreats to a warm hearth in the corner as a gentleman steps into the entrance way. He’s not nearly as old as the woman, but he’s leaning heavily into a wooden cane with his left hand. He, too, scrutinizes Len briefly, looking a little perplexed when he says, “ _Wie kann ich ihnen helfen_?”

“Look,” Len sighs, body aching from his long journey. He stuffs a hand into his coat pocket and produces three of the qen he stole tonight, holding them out to his potential host. “Are you Arzt? I only speak common tongue. I’m looking for a place to lodge for a few days. Do you have an extra bed? I can pay.”

“Oh,” the gentleman says, waving him inside, not bothering to glance at the coins. “Yes, I do. Come in, please.”

“I have a horse,” Len quietly interjects, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder at the fence.

“Markus,” Arzt says, glancing at a tall, lanky young man standing half hidden in the shadows beside the hearth, hands held out toward the fire as he tries to warm himself up, “before you leave tonight, take this man’s horse to the stable.” To Len, he says, “It’s just behind the house. We share it with everyone down the street.”

“Yes sir,” the boy replies, snatching his cap off the fireplace mantel before slipping past Len out the door.

Len politely closes it behind himself, taking a moment to glance around the rather spacious parlor, dimly lit by a pair of candles set on a corner cabinet and the roaring hearth. The old maid has settled herself into a tall-backed armchair by the fire, angled in such a way that she can scowl at Len as she knits, muttering to herself as she tries to resume her work.

“Don’t mind Mrs. Metzger,” Arzt chuckles, leaning past Len to slide the bolt shut on the door. “We’ve had our fill of unexpected guests tonight. Now, tell me—” he eyes the small bag Len’s thrown over his shoulder, once more looking mildly confused, “—you don’t appear to be a hunter. Are you here for the competition?”

“No,” he replies, committed now to his little half-truth. “Just passing through. Visiting family. Is this hunt an annual thing? I didn’t think Erden was such a hotspot for foreigners.”

“It isn’t. It became popular only recently, after the current Baron took over.” He waves Len toward the stairs before them. “You’re in luck. I have only one room left to spare, and no one has come to claim it yet.”

“Has the town really filled up that quickly?”

“Indeed.”

“I’m surprised nobody’s tried to set up camp outside the town wall.” Of course, Len himself was tired of camping out in the cold, but not all travellers had the necessary funds for proper lodging.

“The people of Erden are quite superstitious,” Arzt sighs. “If you tried to set up camp outside, they would urge you to look somewhere safer. Otherwise, the Baron’s Guard would chase you off to the next county.”

Len snorts out a small laugh. It was ridiculous how gullible these people were. “Forgive my asking, but why do they care? I thought Erden hated outsiders.”

Arzt stops at the top of the stairs and turns to a room on the left, gesturing Len inside. “They’re afraid of the sidhe, of course. It’s said that one of the many things the sidhe can do is take on the form of any person who isn’t living, perhaps so that they can more easily trick old friends and relatives out of their money or lives. The common assumption is that outside the town wall, you are open to attack; the sidhe can more easily kill you and steal your face.”

Len shakes his head as he passes into the spare room, wondering how such an ungodly fable came to be. He’s travelled across the country and visited many of the neighboring kingdoms, and never before has he heard of something so absurd.

When all is said and done here, it’s unlikely he will ever think back on Erden fondly.

“Thank you for the room,” Len says as he tosses his bag onto the desk in the corner. There is a shelf packed with books adjacent to it and a bed against the far wall. A tiny window above the desk looks out over the town wall, into the forest. Presently, all that he can see in that great void is the moonlight glinting off the spring leaves.

“You’re welcome,” Arzt replies. “It’s yours as long as you need it. Although, if you don’t mind my asking, how long do you plan on staying in Erden?”

Good question. Unfortunately, Len doesn’t have a definitive answer for him.

Digging into his coat pocket, he again offers the three qen to his host. “At least a week. I’m waiting for someone else in my party to catch up with me. If it looks like I’ll need more time than that, I’ll pay you again before the week is through.”

“Thank you,” Arzt says, finally accepting the qen. “Again, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. However—” He turns and gestures to the room directly across the hall from Len’s. The door is closed, but the faint candlelight illuminating the small gap at the bottom suggests they aren’t alone up here. “—I have another guest, and I ask that you leave him to his peace. He’s not the most sociable fellow.”

“I have no intention of socializing much myself while I’m here, so we shouldn’t have a problem.”

“Wonderful.” Arzt gives him a small nod of gratitude. “Let me know if there’s anything you need. You are welcome to eat with us in the morning if you’d like. Otherwise, have a good night.”

“Good night,” he returns before closing the door and wandering across the moonlit room to rummage in the desk drawer for a pack of lucifers. He then lights the small lantern on the windowsill and settles heavily into the desk’s chair. He allows himself only a moment of rest, ignoring the pull of sleep as he opens his satchel and pulls out the maps he bought the last town over.

There’s still a great deal of work to be done for tomorrow.

~*~*~*~

Len wakes at the crack of dawn still seated at the desk, head buried in the fold of his arms, roused by the sun peeking up over the lip of the windowsill.

He lifts his head gingerly, turning it first one way and then the other to sort out the horrendous kink in his neck. It hardly helps, so he rubs the sleep from his eyes and gathers up his maps, now marked with his best plan on how to divide and conquer the surrounding forest with Mick. Then he stuffs everything into his satchel and heads for the door.

At the bottom of the stairs, he realizes he can hear people milling about at the back of the house, presumably where the kitchen is. Glancing down the hallway leading from the front room, he can see Arzt standing beside a stove, leaning against his cane with one hand and pushing something around inside a pan with a fork in the other. The man turns to say something to whoever is in the kitchen with him and spots Len loitering in the entranceway, so Arzt waves him over.

As he already told the older man, Len isn’t all that interested in socializing with anyone, but the smell of fried eggs and butter wafting out to him draws his attention to the unavoidable pang of hunger in his stomach. He relents, just this once, because he needs to fill his cask of water and it wouldn’t hurt to start the day off on the right foot meal-wise.

“Fancy a bite to eat?” Arzt inquires as Len hesitantly steps into the kitchen.

The only other people in there are the young boy from the day before—‘Markus,’ Len believes his name was—and a gentleman Len doesn’t recognize, a slim fellow with dark hair and a pair of spectacles lying folded on the table beside his cup of tea. Markus smiles at Len from his own seat in greeting; the other man gives Len a quick once over and pops the last piece of his toast into his mouth.

“Yes, thank you,” Len replies, reaching into his satchel to remove his cask. He nods his head toward the sink in the corner. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. How do you like your eggs?”

“However you prefer to serve them, I suppose.”

“Fried it is.”

As Len turns on the tap to fill his cask, the unnamed gentleman quickly polishes off his tea and rises from his seat. “We’ll chat later,” he calls out to Arzt before disappearing down the hall and up the stairs.

Taking the now empty seat at the table, Len pushes the other gentleman’s cup and plate aside and asks, “Is that your other tenant?”

“Don’t mind him,” Arzt chuckles. “Like I said, Harry isn’t the most social creature. He’s usually too busy working to remember to eat, so I’m surprised you’ve had the opportunity to meet him so soon already.”

If you could call that a ‘meeting,’ sure. Not that Len was complaining. The fewer people he spoke with in this crazy town, the better. Pressing people for information was more of Mick’s job anyway.

Glancing over at the kid, Len says, “You took my horse to a stable last night, is that correct?”

Markus nods at the door beside the stove. “Your horse is the only one in there at the moment.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” The boy rises from his seat, collecting both his dishes and Harry’s before carrying them over the sink. To Arzt, he says, “Thank you for the egg.”

They exchange a warm smile before the boy ducks out the back of the house, leaving Len in a bit of lurch conversationally. He was never much of one for small talk, but it feels damn weird sitting here in silence as Arzt works away at the stove.

Just as Len begins contemplating how desperate he is to remark on the grey weather he sees outside the window behind Arzt, the older gentleman slides his fried eggs onto two plates and takes a step over to Len to set one before him. “Is there anything else you need before you head out today?” he asks as he rummages through a small drawer for silverware.

“This is already more than enough,” Len says, catching the fork that Arzt tosses to him and immediately digging into his meal.

Arzt joins him shortly with his own breakfast. “You should always feed a guest. That’s what my mother used to say to me.”

Personally, Len doesn’t know much about general hospitality. His mother died when he was young, and his step-mother ran off shortly after she had Lisa. Their father, Lewis, was hardly a gentle soul, and what he taught his children probably classifies as the complete opposite of generosity. Thanks to him, Len and Lisa made a living out of taking what wasn’t owed or freely offered to them, although Len had grown quite selective in who he robbed over the years. Arzt, for example, wasn’t the sort of fellow he felt like clearing out. The older gentleman was kind and, though obviously well enough financially not to be struggling, he hardly fit the profile of the miserable old nobles Len preferred to liberate from their fortunes.

Having almost completely scarfed down his egg, Len takes a moment to breathe and say, “I expect to be out quite late today. Is that going to be a problem?”

“There’s a bell above the back door for deliveries,” Arzt replies. “Even if it looks like the lights are out, Harry hardly sleeps. Give it a ring, and if I don’t hear it, he’ll let you in.”

“What about your lady friend?” Len asks, thinking about the unpleasant old woman from last night. He would like to avoid crossing paths with her again. “I wouldn’t want to rouse her…”

“Oh—Gertrude lives down the street. She drops by on occasion to help me with the chores. You won’t wake her.”

Len nods, then polishes off his egg. “Thanks again,” he says as he then carries his empty dish off to the sink.

“Are you going to have a look around Erden today?” Arzt asks before Len can duck out the back door. “The castle is at the west end of the town if you’d like to have look. Quite majestic.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Len replies. For some reason, he feels bad for running off so suddenly. Somewhat awkwardly, he says, “Have a nice day,” before finally slipping outside, eager to be on his way.

Just as Markus promised, Len finds his horse in the small stable behind the house. He saddles her up and leads her around to the main road, intending to keep his chat with Mick short before they head their separate ways, but he slows to a halt in the middle of the street when he sees what lies ahead.

It was dark enough outside last night that he somehow missed it, but in the greyish haze of what should’ve been a beautiful spring morning, Len sees hundreds of horseshoes and other scraps of iron nailed to the large wall surrounding the town, particularly around the gate—which itself isn’t even fully opened, an uninviting sight if ever there was one. Then again, Erden wasn’t known for being the most welcoming town this side of the kingdom, but its fear of the outside world was beyond hysterical at this point. Did they honestly think a few lucky charms would protect them?

“Weird, eh?”

Len glances at the figure approaching him from the other side of the street. It turns out to be Mick, walking at an odd angle as he takes in the spectacle himself. The other man shakes his head and laughs. “Waste of metal, but that’s their loss.”

“Here,” Len says, reaching into his satchel for one of his maps. He unrolls it briefly to make sure he’s giving Mick the right one, then hands it over. “Like I said, I want to do a quick look along the eastern border of the forest before we meet again tonight. Someone has to have seen something.”

Mick takes the map but shakes his head. “Many of the farmsteads around Erden have been abandoned for years.”

“For God’s sake…” Len mutters. “How have they allowed themselves to become so spooked over something that doesn’t exist?”

“The sidhe?” Mick scratches his chin and takes another long look at the wall. “Seems like nonsense, but that doesn’t mean there really isn’t something out there to worry about. Vagrants, maybe? Lisa ain’t the only person who’s disappeared without a trace in these parts.”

Vagrants would certainly be a problem, but the Baron reportedly ruled with an iron fist. His Guard patrolled the area regularly, so it wasn’t as though an unsavory group of men could set up shop here without running afoul of them.

With a sigh, Len mounts his horse. “Meet me at the pub after sundown.”

“Good luck,” Mick says, giving him a small salute before jogging off to the inn to collect his own horse. He would cover the south side of the forest while Len worried about the north. Hopefully, one of them would find something before they reconvened.

And Len was certain they _would_ find something. This wasn’t the first time Lisa had trekked into a forest in a strange and unfamiliar land. In fact, they had established something of a procedure for her more ludicrous adventures. Len just had to find a landmark, something close enough to the forest that Lisa would’ve chosen it as her starting point. From there, Len just had to figure out what her chosen markers would be from there onward.

He spends the better part of the morning with next to no luck, eating dried berries from his satchel as he scans the edge of the forest for clues. He stumbles across one homestead along the way, which, as Mick had warned him, turned out to be abandoned. A few of the windows had been smashed in, although that is the worst of the damage. The inside is covered in dust and weeds and smells heavily of some kind of animal. The outside isn’t too exciting either. He finds no footprints, at least any that would belong to a human being, or other signs of human activity, so he mounts his horse again and continues on his way.

A little after noon, he stumbles across another homestead, although he doesn’t realize it until he’s almost upon it. Presently, it’s nothing more than a burned out husk, just a pile of ash and rubble left in a heap where it had fallen. The only thing remotely intact is the base of the old chimney, although what’s left of the stone structure is now half leaning into the rest of the ruin.

Len doubts he’ll find anything of interest here, but he dismounts to investigate anyway. The tilted chimney amuses him enough that he gives it a closer look. Rewarded for his curiosity, he finds a tiny image etched into one of the chimney’s larger stones, a fat rain cloud emitting an impressive score of lightning bolts, something Len imagines a small child would’ve drawn on a dreadfully stormy night.

He rubs his thumb over the drawing, thinking back to his own youth, of the many times he would sit with Lisa out in the midday sun and chip images into whatever scrap of wood he could get his hands on. They were too poor for paper, at least until Len was old enough to pick-pocket more efficiently. In fact, he and Lisa first learned to spell from their neighbor’s wife by dragging a stick through the mud, first figuring out how to write their names before moving on to more complicated words. Len had already learned a great deal before he wrote his first real letter on a proper piece of parchment.

He feels a pang of something in his heart at the memory, thinking of Lisa and their earlier lives together, but maybe the nostalgia helps because it prompted him to investigate his first real clue of the day, which then leads to the second—footprints in the dirt beside the chimney, smaller than his own. In fact, small enough that they _could_ be Lisa’s, he hopes…

Len tries not to let that sliver of hope get the better of him as he glances up at the forest, scanning the trees for something _more_. His horse trails quietly behind him as he tries to follow the footprints into the forest itself, still looking, still hoping—until he sees it.

Up ahead, tied to the branch of a tree much further into the forest, is a red ribbon.

Len is seized by the sight of it, wondering if he should turn back now to collect Mick or forge on. What if Lisa is just ahead, waiting for someone to help her? Or what if she already perished? What if her _body_ is right there…?

When his horse nudges the back of his head, Len turns around to give the beast a comforting pat. “Stay,” he commands it, knowing that it will remain there, at least until nightfall. It’s smart enough to wander back to Erden if Len dallies too long.

The horse huffs at him and trots over to a nice patch of grass to nibble as Len ventures into the forest.

The brush is thick here. Len has a hard time finding a safe spot to step as he works his way to the ribbon. Much to his surprise, by the time he reaches it, he stumbles across a dirt path, the chaparral more likely cleared away by the repeated use of animals than intentionally cut to accommodate the space. Len glances first left, then right, and finally spots something red in the distance, hopefully another ribbon.

Len leaves the first one tied to the branch, to help him later retrace his steps, and takes off down the winding path. He finds no other footprints beyond those belonging to a few animals, but that doesn’t deter him in the slightest. These ribbons were deliberate. This could be Lisa’s doing. This could be—

—someone else entirely, he realizes, as he turns around a small coniferous tree and spots someone up ahead. Definitely not Lisa. Not even a woman, for that matter. Rather, Len finds two men staring back at him, first a bit curiously and then clearly annoyed.

Len knows trouble when he’s stumbled across it. He takes a step back, figuring he can probably outrun these fellows at this distance if it should come to that, at least until he reaches his horse.

That plan of action is shattered quite abruptly, though, when he takes another step back and bumps into something. That something turns out to be another man, one that somehow managed to sneak up on him in his excitement of possibly finding Lisa. Len internally curses himself for not proceeding with his usual level of care, and then he curses his assailant’s entire bloodline as the man swiftly clubs him in the side of the head with something spectacularly hard.

Then the whole world goes horribly dark and quiet for a bit.

~*~*~*~

Len gradually returns to his senses sitting astride a horse, which is a horrible place to be when your head and your stomach can’t agree on which way gravity is pulling you. It helps that someone is sitting behind him, keeping him upright, but the fact that his hands are tied behind his back is more than a little disconcerting. Nothing good can come from this peculiar arrangement, of course.

Sure enough, he doesn’t wake to smiling faces. Instead, he’s greeted by five men standing on the ground before him, each bearing a rifle. They look like hunters—all but the young man standing off to the far left. His pristine black uniform and the wooden club tucked under his arm give away the fact that he is one of the Baron’s guards. He’s not the one Len ran into earlier, but the Baron reportedly had more men in his employment than the Emperor, so Len isn’t surprised that he’s bumped into another one so soon.

Briefly, he wonders if Lisa had the misfortune of happening upon as unsavory a group as this one.

“What a welcome,” Len mutters, trying to blink away the pain behind his eyes.

“You should consider it more of a fond farewell,” one of the men responds, a tall, burly gentlemen with a great bush of a beard that nods to the fellow mounted behind Len. That’s the obvious cue to drop the noose around Len’s neck, the one connected to the wide branch above him, before pulling it nice and taut against Len’s throat.

“Seems a bit extreme,” Len replies, honestly wondering how this day could’ve taken such a turn for the worse. Honestly, he wouldn’t have thought much of anything of these men had they just allowed him to carry on his way. What the hell were they trying to hide out here? “Care to explain why you think this is the best course of action? Unless I’m mistaken, we’ve never even met before.”

“That’s the problem,” the man explains as his companion dismounts and joins the group, subtly adjusting the way he’s got his rifle tucked over the crook of his arm. “We don’t really know you, now do we?”

For a second, Len sways in his perch as he’s assaulted by a wave of nausea, although the fear of tumbling off his horse and strangling himself snaps him perfectly upright again. He’s got a few tricks up his sleeves for dealing with problems like these, but he needs to buy himself a little time.

“No offense,” Len mutters, wishing they hadn’t tried to bash his head in the way that they did, “but the world is full of people you don’t know. You can’t exactly hang everyone you come across, especially when the Baron is hosting an open hunt.”

“But you’re no hunter,” one of the other men interjects, a horrible twig of thing with a mop of blond hair in his eyes. He gives Len’s satchel a bit of a kick where it’s lying by his feet. “You haven’t got the gear for it, besides your maps. Speaking of which—why did you draw on them like that? What are you looking for?”

It’s really none of their damn business what he’s doing out here, but he can’t think of anything that would sound more believable than the truth, so he relents and says, “I’m searching for my sister.”

The men share a confused look, like that’s the last thing they thought he would say.

“She came here about a month ago and then vanished. Nobody’s spotted her in the neighbouring towns or villages, so I can only assume she ventured into the forest somewhere around Erden.”

“Does this have something to do with those ribbons?” the burly guy asks.

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

The man squints at Len, like he thinks there’s more to Len’s story than what he’s telling them. “Are you here to bargain with ‘someone’ for her safe return?”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“ _Look_ ,” Len snaps, growing weary of this nonsense. “Have you seen a woman with long, dark hair wandering through these parts or not? I couldn't honestly care less what you’ve been getting up to in your own damn time out here. I just want to find my sister.”

“We haven’t seen any such woman,” the man replies, but he doesn’t look any closer to letting Len off this horse in a way that doesn’t end in his immediate demise, “and there really isn’t a way to verify your story. So, I’m sorry, friend, but you’re a peculiar man, and peculiar people usually only mean one thing.”

 _‘Don’t you **dare** accuse me of working either **for** or **with** your stupid ‘sidhe’,’_ Len fumes internally, although, in all likelihood, that’s exactly what they’re going to do. They think he’s made some nefarious deal with their proverbial boogiemen, and now they’re going to kill him for it.

God…could there _be_ a dumber reason to be sentenced to death?

The Baron’s guard chooses then to speak up. “Did they offer you something to spy on Erden?” he asks. “The Baron can be quite forgiving. You wouldn’t be the first person who’s lost a loved one to the sidhe. If they’ve offered to return your sister to you, friend, it’s more than likely she’s already dead.”

Len blinks at the other man, completely bewildered. He knows the fellow is just searching for a confession, any reason to confirm he’s working with their imaginary enemy before getting this execution on the way. “…Are you out of your _mind_?” Len snaps. “The sidhe aren’t real. In all my travels, I have _never_ encountered something so outlandish.”

The burly gent and the guard glance at one another. Some unspoken conversation passes between them before the guard gives Len one last look, winks, and turns away, wandering off to God-knows-where.

“Are you _sure_ there isn’t anything you wanted to share with us?” the burly fellow asks, curling the fingers of his left hand together and raising them halfway to his mouth. It takes Len a moment to realize the other fellow is about to whistle, which must be the sign for their horse to run.

Trying not to move too much, Len finally slips his own left hand free from his loosened bindings, compliments of the knife he keeps hidden up his sleeve. It’ll be trickier using it to cut the noose because its already taken him long enough to saw through the rope around his wrists and the second they figure out he’s free, they’ll give him the drop. Having found himself at the wrong end of a noose before, he knows he won’t have long before passing out, and that’s assuming he doesn’t break his neck in the fall. If he had something in the way of a distraction, _then_ his escape might actually be feasible.

His wish is somewhat granted when he hears a faint howl in the distance, either that of a wolf or a wild dog. The men suddenly stiffen in response, which is an odd reaction given the fact that they are all well armed.

They stand there stock-still for an unbearably long time before curiosity gets the better of Len and he asks, “Is this a bad time for you? I certainly don’t mind continuing this conversation some other day.” 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Twig hisses at him, lifting his rifle, scanning the bushes off to Len’s left.

Len obliges him, but only because he realizes the entire forest has fallen silent. He could be mistaken, but there were birds singing only a moment ago. Now, the world is still and quiet.

Seeing as the men are too scared to do much of anything, Len boldly lifts his hand and begins loosening the noose around his neck. The burly gent outright glares at Len when he sees this, but, remarkably, he makes no move to stop him. _That_ , for some reason, unsettles Len, but he continues anyway. He needs to get the hell out of here, and he doubts he’ll get another opportunity as good as this one.

Unfortunately, any question of escape is thrown entirely into the air when a large black mass darts out from the forest in the corner of Len’s right eye. It pins one of the men to the ground, some beastly creature that Len first assumes is a wolf. However, he doesn’t imagine that wolves are that sleek, its short, black hair shiny with sweat, muscles rippling as it tears into its prey.

Another one of the beasts bounds into the small clearing and takes after the first man that tries to run from it. Someone fires off their gun just as Len finally slips the noose off. He loses his balance immediately then because the horse has finally clued into the mayhem, rearing back hard enough to dislodge Len. He hits the ground in something of a crouch, heart in his throat, trying to figure out if more of these strange creatures are about to pop out of the woodworks to slaughter them.

The beasts, however, turn out to be the least of his worries, because as he rises from his crouch, he can see Twig with his rifle raised, half-turned to run as he levels his weapon at Len. Another shot rings out then, this one directed at Len’s chest, knocking him flat on his back on the loamy forest floor.

The impact of the bullet drives the wind from his lungs. The fire and pain that follow are indescribable. He gasps for air but takes nothing in, hands wet and warm as he presses them against the gaping wound in his chest. It feels like a small eternity for the shock to set in, seizing him like a cold wind as the sounds of gunfire and shouting fade into the distance, although that distance could just be an illusion from his gradual lose of consciousness. Any moment now, he’ll be gone.

He’ll be gone, and he’ll never know if Lisa ever made it out of this godforsaken place alive.

He blinks up at the grey sky half-obscured by the foliage above. He isn’t exactly resigned to his fate, but he’s too out of it to think past this exact moment. In fact, he’s so out of it, his brain conjures up the sudden silhouette of someone leaning over him, slowly kneeling down beside him, pushing his trembling hands aside.

He blinks again, confused and a little scared.

“You’re going to be alright,” the stranger says.

And then the world goes horribly dark and quiet again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh, Len. You poor, poor man...
> 
> You're in good hands now. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: On the one hand, I feel so bad for having Len shot. On the other hand, how else would he meet the angel known as Bartholomew Allan...?

When Len was twelve, he fell off the highest branch of an old oak tree and almost broke his arm.

Initially, he thought he _did_ break it given the way he’d landed on it. He remembers his elbow swelling up like a melon and the angry purple bruise that blossomed over the joint. He remembers the ungodly pain, too, although that paled in comparison to his fear. He couldn’t afford a trip to the doctor; if he’d injured it as badly as he assumed, he’d be crippled in more ways than one. After all, how was he supposed to pilfer more than just pockets with only one good arm?

But his arm healed in due time. The ordeal taught him to be cautious, that the time for fun and games was over. No more climbing trees or wrestling in the mud with his limited number of friends. His father was incapable of providing for either of his children, so it was up to Len to smarten up and keep their heads above water.

Of course, it was impossible to avoid the many bumps and scrapes life had to offer entirely, but Len had a fine time keeping himself in peak physical condition outside the occasional fight with backstabbing partners or the authorities. Even then, nothing compared to the pain he experienced falling out of that tree until the cold kiss of death that Len recently took square to his chest.

In the hazy stream of consciousness that follows his abrupt exit into the great beyond, Len finds himself dreaming of his life. He sees Lisa in the back of his mind, a girl who grew too rapidly into a fierce young woman, and Mick, the steely older brother he never had, who had saved him from peril on more than one occasion and had been saved by Len just as often in return.

He also dreams of gentle hands pressing against his chest and the overwhelming smell of something fresh and verdant. It reminds him of spring, lying in the grass just after dawn’s first blush, when the morning is still wonderful and wet with dew.

The smell intensifies as the dream comes to a close. It shifts his thoughts into order, drawing his focus to the ache in his chest and the dull pain behind his eyes. He’s still alive, he thinks, although it’s truly a wonder how. That bullet tore right through him. He’s never seen someone survive a wound like that before.

And yet, here he is.

Although, he doesn’t know where exactly _here_ is. That’s the next big mystery behind his continued existence, though he can tell, at the very least, that he’s inside someone’s house. They’ve laid him out on a bed in the corner, the only other furniture in the room being a small side-table, a desk in the corner, and a shelf against the adjacent wall housing a few books and an impressive array of glass jars filled with flowers, oils, and other little peculiarities.

Len blinks slowly once, then again, wondering if this is real. There are diagrams and charts hanging from the white-washed walls, most depicting a wild array of plants, although one is a carefully drawn sketch of the human body. Someone must have brought him to a local physician, Len realizes, although he doesn’t know who’s supposed to be paying for his treatment. He travels lightly; it’s easy to steal qen as the need arises. Hopefully, nobody tries to throw him in the town gaol once they realize he can’t immediately repay them for their ‘kindness.’

He blinks again, trying to think through the haze. He feels so unbelievably tired. It’s a wonder he’s awake. He’s sorely tempted to close his eyes and allow himself to drift away.

Fighting the pull of sleep, Len struggles to pull his right arm up from under the light quilt draped over his body. What a task that turns out to be. The limb doesn’t want to cooperate at first. It’s only as the fear of being completely paralyzed settles in that he realizes he can wiggle his fingers, even if he can’t entirely feel them. After a few minutes of this agonizing exercise, he can finally bend his arm at the elbow. With enough effort, he might just be able to sit up within the hour.

His little adventure is cut short when he hears footsteps on the other side of the bedroom door. He watches as the doorknob turns, wholly expecting some old physician to sweep into the room, bearded and bespectacled like every other doctor he’s encountered. However, what instead breezes into his life is an alarmingly young man, and quite a beautiful one at that, cleanshaven and smiling, with the greenest eyes Len has ever seen. Looks like a literal angel—which is Len’s first clue that he might very well be dead right now.

That rather somber thought must show on his face because the boy’s smile wavers into a look of concern as he says, “Please, don’t be afraid. The serum will wear off soon. Then you’ll be able to move again.”

Len has so many questions. It’s too bad he can’t make much more than a small humming noise at the back of his throat, but so long as this pitiful state of semi-paralysis is temporary, he supposes he can just relax and enjoy the view while he waits for life to return to normal.

The young man slips one of the journals off the shelf and takes a seat at the desk, pulling out a silver pocket watch to check the time before tucking it back into his vest pocket. Dipping a feathered pen into a jar of ink, he then goes about jotting down notes, pausing only once to glance at Len and smile, seemingly pleased with something.

He’s a rather well dressed gentleman, Len realizes, his shirt perfectly pressed and white, the cuffs rolled up carefully for his work. The faint, silver embroidery on his blue vest is a nice touch, something Len doesn’t normally see on someone who isn’t of nobility. The kid must be the son of someone important then. Does the Baron have a son? Len didn’t think so…

Apparently satisfied with his latest entry, the young man closes his journal and returns it to the shelf. Turning back to Len, he says, “Try to move now.”

Since his right arm is already halfway to its destination, Len tries to lift it again. Remarkably, he’s able to tug the quilt down to his waist. He still feels heavy and weak as he does so, but it’s a noticeable improvement in so little time.

Unfortunately, now that he can really _feel_ again, he realizes his chest is burning something fierce. He doesn’t quite have the strength to tilt his chin down to inspect the damage, but he’s able to brush it with his fingertips. His shirt is gone, replaced with some kind of gauze wound tightly around his torso.

“Does it hurt?” his companion asks, reaching across the small space between them to take Len’s hand into his own. Though he’s warm, his touch sends a small chill along the length of Len’s arm and down his spine.

Much to Len’s surprise, he can feel his pain abating into a dull ache, although he wonders if this is just a trick of his senses, a bit of psychological relief in response to such a kind gesture.

After a moment, the young man gently returns Len’s hand to his side and glances at the door. “I’ll return shortly,” he says before rising from his seat and vanishing into the hall. “I’m making soup!” He calls back to his patient.

Len takes a deep breath, smelling something quite lovely. Hopefully, his gracious host won’t mind sharing his meal.

In his companion’s absence, Len works on rolling over onto his side. Once he’s accomplished this, he tries to tackle sitting up. His arms buckle under his weight a few times, but eventually he succeeds, gingerly swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, he’s still wearing his trousers. Not that he would mind going without them in his present company, but he’s not entirely sure who else is here. With his luck, there will be another ‘Gertrude’ lying in wait in the sitting room to harp on him for taking up precious space in their lovely home. 

He hasn’t a clue where either his shoes or his shirt went—or his satchel, for that matter. There isn’t too much inside it that he can’t replace, but his lockpick kit is going to be awfully difficult to explain if someone discovers it. As weak as he is, he should get a move on it and figure out his exit strategy.

He considers pushing himself up onto his stockinged feet and re-learning how to walk again, but the kid unfortunately returns sooner than anticipated, a steaming bowl of soup and a cup of what Len presumes to be water in hand.

His host shakes his head as he sets his things down on the desk. “I thought it would go without saying that you should take it easy. Not that I don’t admire your tenacity, but your muscles are going to start cramping up something fierce soon, and I would hate for you to crash into my shelf. Some of these ingredients I can only get once a year.”

Len glances once again at the contents of said shelf. He thinks he recognizes one of the deep red flowers. It’s the sort of thing that normally only grows on the eastern coast, weather permitting. He images it would take the kid well over a year to restock everything that he has in here.

“Who—” Len begins to ask before his voice cuts out on him. Embarrassed, he clears his throat and, somewhat hoarsely, tries again: “Who are you?”

“Bartholomew Allen,” his host replies as he pulls open one of his desk drawers and produces a glass dropper. Then he moves over to his shelf, scanning it for a small vial containing an amber liquid. “Or ‘Barry’ for short.” He pops the cork off the top and returns to the desk. “And just who might you be?”

‘ _Bartholomew_ ’ is an awful name for such a lovely person, the obnoxious sort of thing that sounds like it should have a roman numeral after it, but ‘ _Barry_ ’ has a nice ring to it. Even so, Len decides to keep his thoughts to himself and simply says, “Len.”

“ ‘Len’? As in, ‘Leonard’?”

Nobody calls him ‘ _Leonard_ ’ except for his father. Len tries not to make a face as he shakes his head. “Just ‘Len’.”

“Well, _Len_ , this is going to help you with those impending cramps, as well as many of the other problems that we will address shortly.” Barry watches carefully as he adds a single drop of the amber fluid to the cup of water. Then he picks up it, tilts it around to give it a quick mix, and hands it to Len. “It’s tasteless, so don’t worry about trying to down it all in one go. Swallowing might still be tricky for you at the moment.”

Len does as he’s instructed—and still almost chokes. Thankfully, a good cough sets him right again. He somehow feels even more awake. “What is this?” he winces.

“That’s my little secret,” Barry says as he returns the vial to the shelf. He keeps the dropper in his hand, though, and nods at the bowl on the table. “I have some chicken broth for you, although I forgot the spoon. I’ll be right back.”

In Barry’s second absence, Len wonders over how very routine this all feels, like saving someone from the brink of death doesn’t appear to be anything new to the kid. Granted, Barry’s clearly a physician, despite his age, and saving lives is something physicians do, but this is the sort of miracle Len would maybe expect of someone… _older_ , perhaps? More experienced, at the very least. How often has this kid done this before?

More importantly—is this the sort of thing he’s done for Lisa?

Considering that Barry stumbled across Len not too far from where he believes Lisa disappeared, the first thing that Len asks when his host returns is: “Have you recently had a woman as a patient?”

“A woman?” Setting the spoon beside the bowl of broth, Barry squints in concentration and then says, “I treated one three months ago. Is that recent enough for you?”

Len’s heart sinks. That would’ve been long before Lisa’s disappearance.

Pulling out the chair by the desk, Barry turns it so that he can sit facing Len. “Were you in the Alder Forest because you were searching for this woman?”

“She’s my sister,” Len elaborates, taking another sip of Barry’s concoction. This time, it goes down a little easier.

“If it helps,” Barry offers, “she probably isn’t dead. I stumble across just about everyone that doesn’t make it out of this forest alive.”

Hearing that reminds Len of the bloody affair behind how they met, which then prompts him to ask, “Did you know those creatures were going to attack?”

“No, but…I know why they did. The Erlking hasn’t exactly been pleased with the Baron’s hunt lately.”

“Who’s the Erlking?”

Barry blinks at him as if he were truly baffled by that question. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, he says, “Have you ever been to Erden? If so, I’m surprised nobody’s tried to beat the many cautionary tales of the sidhe into you yet.”

“The sidhe, yes,” though this was a topic of conversation he would be _more_ than happy to never revisit. “Somehow, though, they failed to mention this ‘Erlking’ fellow.”

This startles a small laugh out of Barry. “ _Wow_ …you really haven’t been in these parts for very long, have you? The Erl _king_ , as the name suggests, is a king of the sidhe—or ‘feen,’ I suppose you could also call them, depending on your native tongue. He’s one of the most powerful faerie kings, and the Alder Forest is his oldest stomping ground in the human world.”

“You sound very much like you believe this guy is real.”

“Of course, he’s real.” Barry crooks an eyebrow at him, bemused, and then drops his gaze to Len’s bandages. “Who do you think taught me my trade?”

Len finds himself touching the gauze, following Barry’s line of regard to where the bullet struck him. By all rights, he _should_ be dead right now. A shot like that would’ve taken out even a mountain of a man.

“Granted, humans are far more fragile than sidhe, so it’s taken me longer than I would’ve liked to get you in working order again.” Barry crosses one leg casually over the other and glances over his shoulder at his collection of curiosities. “And given what I have on hand, it’s going to take a while yet before you’re at peak condition, but with the worst of it behind you, a few more weeks should do the trick.”

It dawns on Len in that moment that he would’ve been out for quite some time already for his wound to have healed as much as he feels it has. Confused, he tries tugging the gauze loose enough to get a look at the damage.

“Please, don’t do that yet,” Barry snaps, rising from his seat to swat his hands away. “It’s a bit much to take in all at once—”

Too late, Len has already pulled the wonderfully soft material down enough to see the faintest scar a little to the left of his sternum. There’s _no way_ a wound like that would’ve closed up on its own by now. In fact, what is he even doing sitting up right now? That shot would’ve done a number on more than just his lungs.

“The bullet nicked your heart,” Barry says, confirming his fears, “so try not to get too excited. You’re still healing on the inside.”

Len nods, but that’s easier said than done. Already, he’s beginning to feel a little lightheaded. He sways in his seat—

—and wakes up flat on his back, head propped up on a pillow, legs stretched out on the bed. Barry is sitting beside his hip on the mattress, his hand on Len’s brow, warm and soft. When he sees that Len is awake, he sighs and says, “You really need to listen to me, or else I’ll have to give you another sleeping draught. If you aren’t careful, your injuries can still kill you.”

Sluggishly, Len blinks up at him and asks, “What sleeping draught?”

“The one I gave you right after I found you,” Barry explains. “Mending a human body can be quite painful at first. The draught also preserves a person while I work on them.”

“Oh.” Len doesn’t know what to think of that. He doesn’t know what to think of any of this, really, but he’s beginning to come to terms with the fact that something a little otherworldly is obviously going on here. The people of Erden might not be as crazy as he initially thought. “Hold on—how long have I been out since you saved me?”

Barry quirks an eyebrow at him like he has serious doubts Len could handle the answer to that question. Sure enough, he says, “Maybe we should continue this conversation tomorrow…”

“Please,” Len breathes. Mick is waiting for him—Lisa, too, although she’s probably in more dire straits than he is right now.

Sighing again, Barry glances over at the door, like he thinks he should leave their conversation at that, but then he relents. “Five days” he says.

Five… _days_?

Mick is going to kill him when he gets back.

And that serves as Len’s last thought before he promptly passes out again.

~*~*~*~

Barry waits until Len’s eyes flutter closed before he gives the man a gentle pat on the back of his hand and sighs.

That went about as well as expected.

Rising from his seat on the bed, Barry grabs the uneaten bowl of soup and its spoon from the desk and then quietly retreats into the hallway. This is hardly the first patient of his that’s flown into a panic, although the fact that so many people were apprehensive of magic still baffles him. In his boyhood, he’d occasionally accompanied his father on his work across the countryside. It surprises him that more people were better at composing themselves when faced with a bone-saw than the sort of medicine Barry offers. _His_ work is far less painless. No amputations necessary.

You’d think they’d be relieved.

He continues on toward the front of the cottage, to the main sitting area and kitchen, and sets the bowl of soup down on the table for himself. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit disappointed to be eating alone again tonight. It’s been a week since he’s had any of his regular visitors. This hunt was really starting to make a mess of things.

Picking up the spoon, Barry dips it into the soup and gently drags it from one side of the bowl to the other, watching the resulting ripples dance across the surface. He blows on it a little, momentarily mesmerised by the steam as it slips away into oblivion. His father taught him how to cook, but he remembers when he was quite young and his mother was still around, how she loved to make chicken soup. He wonders what she would think of his work, if she would be at all proud of the man he’s become.

Just as he’s begun to sink into his solitude, ready to spend another night reading a book quietly by the fire, he hears the softest crackle across the room. He glances up, eyeing the large window above the sink, and smiles when he spots the tendrils of frost creeping along the edges of the glass panes. He pushes his chair back and rises, poking his head outside the front door to see Caitlin making herself comfortable in the wicker chair to the left, twirling a lock of white hair around her forefinger.

“The master of the house wouldn’t happen to have a little food to spare for a starving friend?” she inquires, smiling.

“As if I could ever turn you away,” he replies, returning her smile. He waves his hand into his cottage. “Please, come in.”

“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” she replies as she rises, brushing the frost off from her black leathers, knowing how much he dislikes having to mop up after her. “I know how much you value your privacy when you’re tending to your more fragile patients.”

As much as he hates being on his own sometimes, she’s not wrong. Tending to Len has monopolized much of his time and energy these past few days. His abilities are still quite nascent, and collecting the ingredients needed for his various serums, the ones that fulfill the tasks he can’t yet handle with his own powers, eats up most of his waking hours. Any visitors before now probably would’ve distracted him.

Caitlin takes a seat at the table as he grabs another bowl from the cabinet in the corner and spoons out the rest of the soup from his pot on the stove for her. He’s glad he made extra tonight, even if Len isn’t the one joining him.

Caitlin, of course, gives her bowl a quick blow as soon as he sets it down in front of her, cooling it down considerably, though not quite to the point of freezing it solid. Then she digs into the meal eagerly, as if it’s the best thing she’s eaten in a long while. For all Barry knows, it might very well be. She’s so often on the move, he doesn’t know if she ever has the time to whip up something substantial on her own time.

“I have good news,” Caitlin says as soon as she finishes. “The King will be visiting soon. I can’t say when, precisely, but you can expect him by the end of the week.”

Barry smiles at her over his own meal, glad to be seeing Hunter again after so long. He knows how busy the King is. Barry spent quite a bit of time in Hunter’s palace when he first became the sidhe’s charge, and he’s seen firsthand the many duties the other man juggles on a daily basis, the many dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms that he needs to negotiate with, the wars he reluctantly wages, the people he happily serves… It was hard to believe that Hunter could make _any_ time for him at all, yet the man always somehow managed to cut out a few consecutive days from his busy schedule to spend in this odd place between worlds with him on occasion.

Leaning back in her chair, Caitlin glances down the hall leading to back of the cottage, likely wondering about his newest patient. Barry knows she’s probably a little worried; she can get to be a bit overprotective at times. Part of her job was to protect him, of course, but she knows he has wards in place inside the cottage to keep him safe.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she says, “but this is the longest anyone has been bedridden in your care, isn’t it?”

“His is the worst injury I’ve ever encountered,” he replies. “He was shot at close range with a rifle. He’s lucky our paths crossed when they did.”

Caitlin winces briefly in sympathy and then slowly grins, “But it’s _exciting_ , isn’t it? You’ve come such a long way. I remember how awkward it was at the beginning, trying to figure everything out. I’m impressed.”

Barry nods. Admittedly, one of the reasons the two of them got along so well was because of their shared human heritage. Caitlin was just beginning her career as a physician when she was travelling between towns one winter and fell through the ice on a frozen lake. Barry doesn’t know if she was dead or near death when Hunter found her, only that he saved her by changing her into a sidhe, much like how he was now changing Barry. Since then, she’s served the king as one of his more mobile agents, delivering messages, keeping an eye on Barry, and chasing down anyone causing trouble for Hunter in the more remote parts of his kingdom. She’d gotten to be quite good at finding and using the ley lines over the years, an impressive trick Barry hopes either she or Hunter will feel compelled to teach him one day.

“I’m still learning,” Barry replies, always a bit shy when it came to compliments. Even if he wasn’t so bashful, what pride he has for his newfound powers is occasionally dampened by the small voice at the back of his head, the one that likes to ask him if he really thinks he’s making the right decision here. Usually, he just ignores it—after all, he’s more or less past the point of no return. However, on the days that he’s serving a human patient, he sometimes can’t help but look at them in all their glorious fragility and freedom and wonder what it would be like to grow old in his childhood home, content with an average life, even if the better part of said life would be spent without his parents.

“You’re too modest,” Caitlin chuckles, leaning back in her chair. She stretches her arms out above her head and yawns.

“Would you like to stay the night?” Barry offers, hoping she doesn’t have to run again so soon.

“I would be delighted,” she replies. Then she rises from her seat, collecting their bowls off the table and carrying them to the sink. When he protests, she says, “If you cook, I clean. Fair is fair, my friend.”

After she’s tidied up for them, Barry offers her a bit of his strawberry wine. Together, they then retreat outside, each with a glass in hand, and settle into Barry’s wicker chairs to watch the surrounding forest as it’s set ablaze by the setting sun. To their right, thirty or so feet from the cottage, is the edge of a small lake, upon which Barry can see a pair of swans floating dreamily in the dying light. They came to live here only a short while after he arrived, if he recalls correctly.

“Nature’s finest love birds,” Caitlin remarks when she herself spots the swans. “Did you know that they mate for life?”

“Sounds romantic,” Barry replies, although he wonders how much thought a bird put into deciding that that their mate was ‘the one.’ Did they simply choose the first one that came along and fulfilled the basic requirements for companionship, or was there more to it than that?

As Barry takes a sip of his wine, he can sense that Caitlin has shifted her gaze to him. After studying his face for a moment, she says, “Or does it just sound sensible?”

Taking a moment to savour the wine, Barry glances down into his cup and asks, “What are the Hounds doing in the forest without the King’s supervision?”

“If they’re here without the King, then that means James is afoot,” Caitlin mutters, rolling her eyes. “I haven’t seen much of him on the other side, so it only makes sense that he’s been meddling in human affairs again.”

Normally, Barry couldn’t find it in his heart to hate anyone, but the Trickster was easily his least favorite person in either realm. He was the kind of sidhe that the people of Erden had every right to fear.

Sometimes, his cruelty knew no bounds.

“He let the Hounds make a mess of a handful of hunters,” Barry mutters, thinking about the carnage that they left in their wake. Stopping them while they were in the thick of things was impossible. In fact, the only reason they didn’t round on Len was because Barry already had his hands on the other man, trying his utmost to stanch the flow of blood. Even so, there was a moment when one of them had stopped to watch Barry work, its dark eyes fixed on Len, blood dripping from its mouth, where Barry truly feared that it would tear the man from his grasp, consequences bedamned.

“Not that I condone what the Hounds do, but this is hardly the first time they’ve killed someone,” Caitlin replies. “It therefore surprises me that the Baron is persisting with this hunt.”

“One of the men that had been killed was a member of the Baron’s Guard,” Barry adds. He doesn’t feel like that’s a coincidence, not when so many humans were roaming the forest, the perfect target for the Trickster’s brand of mischief. “What exactly _is_ the issue between Devoe and the King?”

“Who knows?” Caitlin snorts before taking a sip of her wine. “But quite a few sidhe only visit the human world in animal form, so of course the King feels compelled to do something about the hunt. He takes care of his people. You know that.”

Of course, Barry does. In fact, Hunter obviously took quite a bit of pride in the fact that he could serve his people so well, but Barry had seen a certain look in the other man’s eyes whenever the Baron came up in conversation, one that suggested there was something _more_ to it than that. Therefore, it was hard not to wonder if there wasn’t something terribly personal behind this bloody affair between them.

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” Caitlin says. “Once you return with us, Erden and the Baron will be the farthest thing from the King’s mind again.” She winks at him. “Even at this distance, the thought of you occupies a considerable amount his time.”

Though he knows she doesn’t mean that as an accusation, Barry feels a twinge of guilt at the thought that _he_ is the reason that Hunter was allowing himself to be bothered by the Baron. By allowing himself to give in to his nostalgia of the human world, Barry was inadvertently making a mess of everything.

Thankfully, Caitlin doesn’t seem to notice his sudden discomfort. She is somewhat occupied by the small patch of rosemary growing beside his cottage. Squinting at it for a moment, she then glances at Barry and asks, “Do you think you’re going to have enough for your new patient?”

Barry sighs. She raises a good point. He either needs to plant more or hunt for a little in his garden before too long.

Just one more thing to worry about, he supposes…

~***~

The moment Len’s horse trotted into town without its rider, Mick knew to fear the worst.

He had already been feeling a bit agitated when he returned earlier that evening and waited, to no avail, for his partner to show. He ended up eating his dinner by himself in the pub and retreating upstairs to the room he rented for the week after lingering by the fire for over three hours. Fortunately, his solitary window faced the main street leading in from the front gate, so he sat beside it for the better part of the night and kept his eyes peeled. Every once in a while, he would steal a glance down the other end of the road toward the house where that peculiar old man lived, but nothing of interest came from that quarter either. It wasn’t until the Baron’s Guard marched up to the gate to seal it for the night that Mick caught sight of the horse trotting into town, much to the confusion of the soldiers gathered there.

Mick raced downstairs the second he spotted it, almost tripping over his own feet as he tried to squeeze past another patron through the front door of the pub. He was half-expecting the guards to shoot the poor animal, given their paranoia, but they didn’t seem at all alarmed when Mick pinched his fingers together behind his lips and whistled the creature over to himself.

“This one is yours?” one of the guards asked, jerking his thumb at the beast as it ambled over to Mick.

“My pal’s,” Mick replied, taking the horse’s reins and giving the creature a gentle pat on the neck. It didn’t look hurt or exhausted. It probably wandered back to town on its own after having been abandoned in the woods. “I can take it, yeah?”

“ _Natürlich_ ,” the guard said with a nod. And then, realizing Mick might not understand his native language: “Of course.”

Mick promptly left with the horse, tying it up with his own in the stable behind the inn. The following morning, one of the barmaids explained to him that although many sidhe were shapeshifters, turning into an animal wouldn’t get them past the iron wall. They also would never send a familiar into town as an agent, because they would lose control over any animal at their beck and call if they wandered too far from them.

Though he knew this was all nonsense, Mick kind of enjoyed learning about such folklores throughout his travels. He once considered putting together an anthology of everything he’d ever heard, but paper wasn’t cheap and he didn’t have the neatest handwriting. Maybe once he was old and rich enough, he’d hire someone to help him out with that.

Despite the fact that Len was missing, Mick tried not to panic. After all, Lisa wasn’t the only Snart sibling that had a habit of vanishing into thin air before suddenly reappearing with a smile on her face and her pockets fit to bursting, so Mick stocked up on supplies and took Len’s horse out for a ride that day, letting it choose the direction of their wild wanderings in the hope that it would lead him back to where it had last seen its master.

They passed two abandoned homesteads along their journey, one which was still in fairly good condition and one that had been burned to the ground. When they reached the latter, the horse came to a complete stop, even after Mick gently urged it forward. Recognizing this as a possible clue to Len’s whereabouts, Mick dismounted and looked around the place, feeling marginally relieved when he finally spotted footprints in the ash around a collapsed chimney.

Scanning the surrounding forest, Mick wondered what could’ve compelled Len to forge on alone from here instead of returning to Erden for help. Mick could see nothing of interest. When he scanned the rolling hills behind him, he found much of the same. Why would Len abandon his horse in _this_ of all places and continue on foot?

Mick spent a while longer investigating the ruins, wondering if a wall had collapsed on his partner or if Len had fallen through the floor somewhere into a hidden cellar, but his search turned up nothing. Therefore, his only other option at that point was to search the forest itself, although the sky was beginning to darken with rainclouds and Mick didn’t want to stumble across whatever trouble Len encountered in the middle of a storm. Mulling over the situation for a moment, Mick finally decided to pop in and out again in a few minutes, return to Erden, and then try again tomorrow, weather permitting.

The horse, wisely, decided against venturing with him into the forest. Mick continued on alone, cursing under his breath as he tried to beat his way through the heavy underbrush. He almost gave up and turned around right then and there, because Len couldn’t have been stupid enough to dive headfirst into this sort of mess—but then he spotted something of a dirt path covered in overlapping tracks. Some looked as though they belonged to deer.

Others were distinctly human.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Mick pulled out his handkerchief and tied it to the branch of the tree beside him, one that jutted out over the path and would be easy to spot at a distance, just a little something to use as a marker for his return trip. Then he examined the footprints a little closer to determine how many people he might be dealing with here before taking off in the direction they appeared to have been heading.

Mick followed the path for only a few minutes before he came to a wide clearing. He didn’t step into view immediately, instead peeking around a small coniferous tree in case anyone might catch sight of him, though he quickly realized he had nothing to fear. While there appeared to be supplies heaped rather haphazardly together in one corner of the clearing, there were no people to be found.

There was, however, an abundance of blood.

Mick’s first thought was that some wild beast had attacked a group of hunters, and he strongly considered high-tailing it out of there right then, although when he spotted the shoddy grave markers off to his left, he realized that a living, breathing person must have passed through here in relative safety not too long ago. Curiosity getting the better of him, he decided to approach the graves for a closer look, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for trouble.

There were six heaps of fresh soil in total, set side by side, each with its own hastily made cross. Mick briefly wondered if Len could be one of the unfortunate sods buried here, but when he rummaged through the pile of supplies beside the graves, he found nothing that belonged to him. He sighed in relief. Of course, this didn’t mean something bad _hadn’t_ happened to his companion, but Mick had always been a little more hopeful than Len. A part of him believed he could still find both Snart siblings with enough time and effort.

Satisfied with his cursory search, Mick grabbed one of the rifles from the pile, just in case he stumbled across whatever caused this scene—which was probably wolves, he realized once he took a moment to inspect the tracks left behind in the bloody earth. Each paw print was about as large as his foot, and it looked to him as though more than one of these creatures had passed through here. They must have made a fine mess of these men in no time at all.

At first glance, this appeared like a somewhat tidy story, a savage attack that ended badly for everyone involved—but then Mick spotted the noose dangling high up in one of the trees beside the clearing, and then he had to wonder if the graves and the bloody tracks were linked at all. What if these men had been executed?

Then again, if six men were executed, why was there only one noose?

Mick stood there and puzzled over this mystery for a short while. Then a wolf spider the size of his fist scuttled down the noose and startled him out of his reverie. Coupled with the first few drops of rain now patting him on the head and shoulders, Mick had all the incentive he needed to split for the night.

Which turned out to be something of a mistake, because when he returned the following day, it was apparent that the rain had washed away most of the tracks. Mick realized then that he should’ve checked for human footprints and followed them away from the clearing, just in case Len had passed this way himself, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Resigned, Mick rummaged through the discarded supplies one last time for anything of interest and retreated back to Erden.

It rained something fierce the next few days, so much so that the Baron’s Guard kept the main gate closed to discourage anyone from wandering out into the fray. Even so, they permitted the odd traveller into town, so Mick knew Len could still return if he was able. This, of course, did not bode well.

Tired of sitting idle, Mick knew there was really only one avenue he could explore for figuring out where Len had wandered off to while he waited for the rain to end. Len had made a series of maps detailing how he would go about searching the surrounding forest, and Mick only had the map Len modified for him. Usually, Len kept everything on hand when he travelled, but every once in a while he would leave something behind in his room. If Len made a back-up map, the only place Mick could think to find it would be the old man’s house at the end of the street—

Unfortunately, getting inside the damn place _doesn’t_ turn out to be an easy feat, as evidenced by his current position standing out in the rain, having just had the door slammed in his face by that _hag_. He knows it all boils down to the fact that she doesn’t want to deal with someone who doesn’t speak the same language as her, but he was half-hoping the old man would be around deal with. _He_ , at least, was supposed to speak more than one language.

When hammering on the door for a solid minute doesn’t produce a more suitable result, Mick figures that the old man must be out. He therefore retreats back to his room at the inn and sits by the window, watching the house like a hawk until the day turns to night and the hag finally pops out the front door, ambling down the road to her own place. The windows of the corner house remain dark in her wake, so Mick can only assume that it’s empty for the moment.

Being that Mick is a thief by trade, it feels very much like business as usual when he stuffs his lock-picking kit into the front of his coat, tucks his knife into his right coat sleeve, and wanders back outside. The rain has dwindled to a light drizzle by now, but the streets remain more or less empty. There’s a drunkard arguing with the soldiers at the gate, which makes for a nice little diversion as Mick darts across the road, his collar turned up to hide his face. Further down the road, he can see two young men carrying a couple of boxes, but they appear to be in a heated conversation and pay him no mind.

The narrow alleyway behind the house gives him a nice bit of cover as he whips out his tools and sets himself to work. It takes him only a few seconds to deal with the lock, but he still opens the door slowly, taking his first step into what appears to be a kitchen with a great deal of caution. Old places like these tend to creak, and although it doesn’t seem as though the old man is home, he could’ve been holed up in bed all day, down with a cold.

Closing the door behind him, Mick waits a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Stepping lightly, he then turns down the hall by the kitchen to investigate the first bedroom he encounters, which looks to be well lived-in, most likely the owner’s. Adjacent to it is a water closet, so Mick turns around and makes his way through the front parlor to the main stairway.

Unfortunately, the third step up groans under his weight.

Mick comes to an abrupt halt and holds his breath, listening for other sounds of movement in the house. After twenty seconds of absolute silence, he continues his trek upstairs. As soon as he reaches the top, he can see that the room at the end of the hall is a water closet, so he ignores it entirely and turns to the room on his left. Now that the rain has begun to let up, the moonlight streaming in through the window illuminates what appears to be an empty room, but Mick steps inside anyway and rummages through the desk. Finding nothing, he resists the urge to grunt in irritation as he returns to the hallway, glancing at the door of the final room.

On his way upstairs, he thought it had been completely closed. However, from this angle, he can tell that it’s actually slightly ajar. Wondering if this had been Len’s room, he steps forward and peeks through the crack in the door. In the semi-darkness, he can make out an empty bed, so he pushes the door a little further open and steps inside.

There’s an old trunk in here beside the bed, upon which sits an unlit oil lamp and a stack of papers. Mick makes a beeline for it, hoping the paper belongs to Len, but the handwriting looks like some kind of crazy shorthand, small ink-scratches of symbols he’s never seen before. Now, he and Len occasionally sent cryptic messages to one another when they had to discuss their more sensitive work, but they still used the Emperor’s alphabet. _This_ looks like nothing Mick has ever encountered before.

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Mick glances aside at the desk to his left. Some kind of…apparatus is set up there, a network of glass set above a series of unlit candles. There are also various flowers, weeds, and berries piled up on the window ledge, as well as a mortar and pestle. Mick wonders if some kind of physician is using this room.

Having turned up nothing of interest, Mick sighs and turns toward the door—and that’s when he spots the dark figure standing behind it, pistol in hand.

Mick’s watched the house long enough by now that he’s truly startled to be faced with this complete stranger. Tall, dark-haired, and bespectacled, he looks nothing like the owner or anyone else Mick has seen around the house since he arrived in Erden. Just how long has he been here?

Although the fellow initially scowls at him, a quick glance between Mick and the apparatus seems to ease his nerves a little. Mick thinks maybe the guy’s just glad Mick didn’t touch anything, which turns out to be true when the fellow sighs and says, “You’re not quite what I expected of a thief.”

Yeah, well, Mick didn’t break in here tonight to ‘steal’ anything, so he should consider himself lucky. “I’m just looking for my friend,” he grumbles.

“The gentlemen renting the room across the hall?” the man inquires.

“Yeah.”

“He was only here for a night.”

Mick sighs, nodding his head toward the door. “Well then, if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind, actually.”

There’s suddenly a sound from downstairs, that of a door banging open against a wall. It’s followed, ironically, by two young voices arguing over the importance of being discreet, which rise in volume as they approach the stairs.

When the man glances aside at the door, Mick whips out the knife tucked into his coat sleeve. He doesn’t intend to kill the man, merely knock the pistol aside and then intimidate him into letting Mick go—but the knife instantly flies from his fingers and into the gentleman’s other hand, handle first, as if it had leapt there of its own accord.

Mick blinks at the man in stunned silence.

He was _pretty_ _sure_ he came here tonight completely sober…

The man doesn’t say anything or otherwise move until the newcomers reach the top of the stairs and burst into the room, the light from their lantern better illuminating the room. Mick immediately recognizes them as the two young fellows he spotted down the street on his way over here tonight. One of them, the one holding a stack of boxes, almost drops everything at the sight of Mick. The other, who's holding the lantern, shrieks in surprise.

“Hartley,” the bespectacled man says, giving the two young men a second start when they finally spot him hovering in their periphery. “Is this one of the Baron’s men?”

The one holding the boxes squints at Mick for a second and then says, “Uh…no. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s one misstep away from making Devoe’s shit list.”

The one holding the lantern tucks a lock of dark hair behind his ear and says, “I’m still a hundred percent certain some of the newer hunters that came into town were paid to keep an eye on things by the Baron. There’s no way he has a running list of absolutely everyone in his employ.”

The one with the boxes—Hartley—shrugs, like he can’t think of a reason to argue with that logic.

Mick doesn’t know how this Hartley fellow could know who is or isn’t working for the Baron, but the fact that he has insider knowledge prompts Mick to ask: “Did Devoe have anything to do with the disappearance of my friend?”

The young man shrugs again, although this time he looks uncomfortable doing so, like he might just feel the least bit sympathetic for Mick. “I don’t know who your friend is, but the Baron makes a lot of people ‘disappear’ in these parts. Then again, so do the sidhe…”

When he hears the word ‘sidhe,’ Mick almost rolls his eyes. _Almost_. Instead, he finds himself glancing at the knife the bespectacled man just liberated from him, his mind still tumbling head over ass as he tries to figure out how he managed to pull off that nifty little magic trick. There’s at least seven feet between them, and the guy still hasn’t moved so much as a muscle.

The bespectacled man sighs in irritation and lowers the hand holding the pistol, although he keeps Mick’s knife raised. “I didn’t do anything to your companion either.”

“So…” the kid with the lantern says, “what are we going to do with _this_ _guy_?”

For one wild moment, Mick wonders if this little misadventure of his is going to wind up getting him killed. In fact, he assumes its pretty much a done deal when the bespectacled guy suddenly rushes him, shoving his hand into Mick’s chest in the time that it takes Mick to blink. The fellow also manages to somehow hook his foot around Mick’s left calf, because Mick immediately falls flat on his ass when he tries to take a step back, jolted so hard by the sudden transition to the ground that the whole world goes dark for a second.

It takes him another second to realize he’s now soaking wet and covered in mud. He’s also outside, staring up at the strange man towering over Mick, wondering what fantastical thing he’s about to do next. In the moonlight, the other man looks unnaturally pale, as if he were cut from marble. His eyes, too, hold some ethereal quality, too blue and too bright to be natural.

The man tosses the knife down violently between Mick’s legs, burying the blade in the mud just a hairsbreadth away from Mick’s family jewels. “We appear to have a common enemy,” he mutters. “That’s the _only_ reason you’re alive right now. If you’re smart, you’ll leave Erden first thing tomorrow.”

Then he turns away, as if he has nothing to fear from returning the knife to Mick and then immediately exposing his back to him.

Mick glances around himself for a moment and realizes that he’s in the alleyway behind the house. Just as the man reaches the back door, Mick asks, completely dumbfounded, “How many of you sidhe are in Erden?”

The man pauses with his hand on the door handle, as if he’s considering ignoring Mick’s question. Thankfully, though, he eventually glances over his shoulder at Mick and says, “I’m the _only_ sidhe in Erden.”

“How?”

“There’s a king, you know, who would pay dearly for the answer to that very question.”

“A _king_? …You mean that faerie guy everyone’s always talking about?”

The bespectacled man winks at him. Mick can’t explain why, but it feels like a gentlest slap in the face. “Leave Erden while you still can, my friend, and don’t mention our encounter to anyone. For your sake.”

Mick has a million other questions now, but by then the man has quickly stepped into the house and slammed the door shut behind himself. Mick stares after him for another long moment, still stunned by what just transpired, until the evening chill begins to creep into his bones. Then he yanks the knife free of the mud and pushes himself up to his feet.

Despite the man’s suggestion, it looks like Mick’s going to have to extend his stay in Erden for a little while longer.

He thinks it’s great, though, that he’s finally found someone that can help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Good old Mick. He's so resilient. Len really knows how to choose his partners, doesn't he?


End file.
